Going Home
by dontstopnow
Summary: Home is where you find it. Nasir just hopes he'll know it when he gets there.


_**Going Home**_

"Nasir will show you the way," Robin had said, as if it were nothing much. As if it were obvious. Not a thought in him, not a moment's doubt. For a brief instant, Nasir had wondered what the man would do if he said no. Gape like an idiot, most likely, and then flail and frown. Robin did that, when things did not go as he had planned. The man did not seem to understand contingency.

Nasir had no burning desire to see Lincoln. He had seen enough of English cities and towns – squalid, filth-ridden places, verminous and bleak, stinking of open cess pits and dung and too many people and animals crowded together. London, with its reeking river and spreading shambles, had been a crashing disappointment, Oxford and Cantebrigge dismal, and Nottingham positively brutish. There was no reason to believe that Lincoln would be any better. No one would wash, the streets would be thick with muck, and if there was music it would sound like someone breaking pots with a hammer.

In Damascus, the souk would be full of light and sound and colour, the fine shimmering song of the sunlight mixing with the heady scent of spices and oils, fruits and flowers and musk, high notes of citrus and dust and frankincense. The bray and call of the traders at their stalls would blat and ripple through the air, filling the market with the burble of half a dozen languages flowing like water, and wise men would gather in the cool open courts to sip mint tea and speak of poets and politics, philosophers and faith. In Lincoln, men would gather in taverns to drink themselves senseless, and as distasteful as that was, Nasir found he did not particularly blame them. If some things had not been forbidden by the teachings of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, Nasir might have sought solace there too.

Quite how his charges had thought to reach Lincoln on their own, Nasir did not know. It was not so far: only some thirty or forty miles heading north and east along a wide, easy road, passing Newark on the way; a simple enough venture for a traveller of some experience, but a different matter for an old and ailing man, a milk-and-water maiden and a pair of children barely out of the nursery. Alone, Nasir could have made the trip there and back in a handful of days. Joshua de Talmont and his family, Nasir thought, would have been lucky to make it at all.

They had no idea how to survive in a hostile world. That was strange to Nasir, who had learned survival with his mother's milk – and doubly strange for that they were Jews living in a Christian country, and met with hostility as a matter of course. He had thought they would be better at defending themselves by now. "The most beautiful thing is to forgive," de Talmont had said of the men who had killed his people and stolen his daughter. Nasir supposed that that was true, but the practical thing was to dispose of one's enemies when the chance arose and thank Allah for His mercy when it was done, and Nasir had ever been a creature more driven by the practical than the beautiful. It was no wonder, though, that Robin and de Talmont had got along so well. Robin never wanted to kill anyone, either. No matter how desperately they deserved it.

He kept them off the main roads, leading them along forest tracks and twisting country lanes. He scouted ahead when he could, though he did not like to leave de Talmont and his children alone for too long. Not a one of them could swing a sword, or draw a bow, or even wield a staff with anything like skill, and their broad little donkey with its loaded paniers made a tempting lure to any bandit with an eye for the main chance. Mostly he stayed close by them, shepherding them off the path at the first sound of voices or horses, the first creak of cart or rise of dust. They'd objected to that at first, the old man smiling politely as he'd said, "Not all men are our enemies. We must face the world with some trust, surely?"

"Faith and foolishness are not the same thing." Nasir replied. His grasp of Hebrew, though not perfect, was still better than his English, and he added: "Trust in HaShem, but do not test Him."

De Talmont had seemed surprised at that, had wanted to argue. Nasir had never seen the point of arguing. A man was right or he was wrong, and adding words to the equation was hardly going to change that. He'd only shrugged, and let things unfold as they would.

After he'd had to kill the first ruffian who accosted them, de Talmont did not argue any more.

That night as they set camp in a small spinney away from the road and passers-by, de Talmont asked quietly, "That man today … why did you break his neck like that? Couldn't you have simply … discouraged him?"

"If a rabid dog menaced your family, would you merely toss it a bone and hope for it to go away?" Nasir finished with the fire and sat back, watching the two young children, Esther and Samuel, help their sister with the donkey. "A quick death, and no blood to frighten the children, _alhamdulillah_."

"Praise Him indeed." De Talmont gave Nasir an odd look, thoughtful, between solemnity and sorrow. "You are a hard man, my friend."

"I am a man like any other." Nasir shrugged. He did not like the expression in the old man's eyes. It looked like pity. "It is the world that is hard. I only live in it."

"You do as you must." De Talmont seemed to understand that, at least. Nasir nodded, accepting the truth that far and giving it back in turn.

"As do you."

"Indeed." De Talmont's smile was almost wistful. "As do we all."

Nasir hesitated a moment, unsure what to make of that, then decided it didn't matter. He rose, moving away from the small fire and the low chatter of the children. The sun was the barest glow on the western horizon; he made himself ready for prayer then turned to the east, and let the soft chant of his own words bring him peace.

When he was done, he stayed where he was, listening to the sounds around him; slow calling night birds, the high chitter of crickets, the quiet murmur of voices by the small fire. Nothing out of place. He hoped it would stay that way. It would be good to get a little sleep, at least. Three watchful nights and walking days and he would be dreaming awake by the time they reached Lincoln, and then he'd be no use to anyone.

The young woman's voice carried to him, gentle on the evening air. Nasir smiled to himself. She was telling the young ones a story, something from their holy book. He recognised the story, if not the names; he had heard a version of it once from a tale teller in a market place in Baghdad, spinning a fable from old Babylon of three faithful young men who had refused to worship a false idol, and who had been cast into a furnace as punishment.

"The flames were so hot that the soldiers who threw them into the furnace withered on the spot like cinders, but when the king looked in to the fire, he saw Haniniah, Mishael and Azariah standing and walking around in the flames, untouched by the heat, and a fourth figure watching over them. And the king knew that they were sheltered by God's hand, and that was a power greater than his, and so he called them out of the flames and gave them gifts and bade them go in peace. So you see, no matter how great the danger may seem, all we need do is keep faith in God, for when our faith is strong enough we will not be burned, even by the hottest fires."

A comfort for frightened children. Nasir could have told them that the truth was not so kind; his faith had never faltered for a heartbeat, and he had been burned time and again. Betrayed by his Brotherhood, by friends and teachers and ad-Din Sinan himself, lied to and used to ends not his own, cast into captivity and exile among infidels – oh yes, he had walked in the fire and been scorched by the flames. Faith was not enough to keep a man from scars. Nor should it be, he thought. What was faith worth, after all, if it was not tested?

But no, let the children have their comfort, and their peace. They would know better soon enough. And in any case, they had been well-tested for ones so young; they had witnessed death and madness, seen their sister abducted, fled their home and safety for the hope of security elsewhere. Nasir doubted that they would find it – from what he could tell, nowhere in England was safe for a Jew – but he could hope that he was wrong.

Sarah looked up, wide-eyed and startled, when Nasir shadowed back into camp. It occurred to him that he had frightened her, moving so quietly as he did; he offered a smile in apology and a murmured word as he folded himself neatly beside the fire, soothing her as he might sooth a nervous filly: "_Salaam_."

"_Shalom_." And then, shyly, trying his language on her tongue: "_Salaam_. The children are asleep, poor lambs. They barely kept their eyes open long enough to eat. And my father too, he's not as strong as once he was, his chest troubles him. They are not used to travelling in this way …" Realising she was babbling, Sarah made herself stop. Nasir made her uneasy with his arsenal of weaponry and his cat's grace, and that made her feel poor and ungrateful. The man had been nothing but gracious to her and her family, fulfilling his role as their guardian with unfailing manners and unrelenting competence. She had no business thinking ill of him. Even if he had appeared just now out of the night like a very spirit, all dark and swarthy in leather and steel, with eyes like black stones in the moonlight.

An owl called nearby, and some small creature shrilled a thin and painful cry. Sarah jumped were she sat, wrapping her arms about herself and laughing nervously.

"You must think me a silly chit of a thing," she said. "Flinching at shadows. It is only that I am unused to living like this. The forest at night, being outdoors … I've always had a home, before, you see."

Nasir gave that a moment's thought. "No," he said at last. "Not silly. Only…" He trailed off, lacking the words to say what he meant, then tried again. "Only misplaced."

That made her smile. "Not so misplaced as you are, I think. We are both far from home, are we not?"

"A wrong turning," Nasir shrugged, deliberately casual. "_Allahu alam_. Perhaps it is part of my passage through the flames?"

She laughed, self-conscious. "You heard that? The children enjoy stories, it takes their minds from their troubles."

To that, Nasir did not reply, though he nodded his understanding. If privately he thought that it would take more than a tale or two to save these children of Israel from the woes of the world, he kept that to himself.

"Sleep," he said. "I will see that no harm comes."

Sarah, who knew no better, found that she believed him.

* * *

De Talmont had wanted to stop in Newark, to find rooms and rest for a day or two with his family. He had money enough, he said. He would slip the innkeep extra coin to take them in and keep his mouth shut, and they would sleep dry under a roof and safe from danger. Nasir told him bluntly that they would do no such thing. He did so in Greek, which he had discovered that de Talmont spoke nearly as well as he did after the man had quoted Aristotle to him, espousing on the nature of truth. Perhaps they would not misunderstand each other so readily, in Greek.

"You are Jews," he said, "and I, to the people of this land, am the nearest thing to a demon. You, they would drive out, money or no. Me, they would try to kill. It would cost lives, and gain us nothing."

"You don't know that."

Nasir gave him a cool look. "I know fear, and what it does to men. I know that, when faced with the likes of us, the people of this land know little hospitality and less kindness. I know that the beaten dog will snap even at the hand that feeds. We will rest if you must, but we will not go into Newark."

That afternoon, the weather began to fail. Grey clouds streaked the horizon, sending a damp, gusty wind before them. Nasir, who had become used to reading the skies in this land as a matter of simple necessity – it had amazed him, at first, to be in a country where it rained so well and so often, but the novelty had soon worn off – found he did not fancy spending the night in the open. They had passed a village or two along the way: ramshackle affairs of daub and wattle, busy with children and livestock and workers grubbing in the fields. The villages themselves offered no safe shelter; if these people were anything like the villagers that surrounded Sherwood, they would be wary and skittish as deer. In any case, Nasir did not want their passing to be marked, and it was not as if a Saracen warrior and a family of Jews made for a commonplace company of travellers. There was no telling to whom bored and curious villagers might speak … and no telling, either, if Gisburne had truly given up the chase. The man had declared himself smitten with the girl Sarah, after all, and Nasir had never noticed that Gisburne was one to be easily discouraged. Will's outlandish threats (Nasir did not think that it was actually possible to rip out a man's heart and make him eat it, but he did not doubt that Will was willing to try) and de Rainault's brief madness may have put him off, but just how long fear and good sense would outweigh desire and the need for revenge in a man like Gisburne was anyone's guess. Nasir preferred not to take chances.

Where there were villages, though, there were outsiders. A charcoal burner's hut, abandoned for the season but sound enough, offered refuge from the gathering rain. There was even a small lean-to shelter at the back for the donkey. Inside, the shack was a one room affair, with a stamped-earthen floor, a strong smell of disuse, a smoky hearth, and a roof that leaked in one corner. Nasir shrugged, placing his bow, unstrung in the damp, to lean in one corner. In the walls, vermin scratched. Nasir ignored that. He had been raised to better, but he had known worse.

De Talmont cast a long-suffering eye over the hut as he slumped to rest on an uneven, three-legged stool. He had his hand to his chest again, rubbing as if it pained him. Perhaps he was thinking of his fine home in Nottingham, or his longed-for inn in Newark. All he said, though, was "It will keep the rain off."

Sarah busied herself at once with lighting a fire and warming water to prepare her father's infusion, the herbal tonic that he drank morning and night. To help with his chest, the old man had once said with a resigned smile that had told Nasir that it did not help at all. He wondered if Sarah knew that. The children, subdued by fatigue, huddled quietly together near the hearth.

"So, my friend. Arabic, Hebrew, English, and now Greek." De Talmont's tone was deliberately light, cautious and curious at once. "I will admit, I had not picked you for a scholar."

Nasir stifled a smile at that: even the most persistent of his boyhood tutors had found him an adequate student at best. "The Prophet, _sallallahu alayhi wa-salaam_, teaches that it is the duty of every Muslim to seek knowledge. I have learned a little, here and there. And I have travelled more than most, perhaps. Sometimes willingly, sometimes less so. Necessity, they say, is the best teacher of all."

"That is so, that is so." De Talmont sipped at the infusion his daughter had put into his hand. "Necessity taught you suspicion, too?"

"Father!" Sarah stared, shocked and embarrassed. The old man waved her into silence.

"I only say as I see. You do not trust as other men trust. We must stay off the roads, you say. We must avoid the villages, we must not go into Newark, as if every man's hand is against us. Does the world seem so cold to you?"

Nasir took no outward offense, though his eyes flicked once to the door as if he was considering using it. He hitched one shoulder in half a shrug. "Suspicion, survival. Sides of the same coin. I trust where trust is earned."

"But you do not extend credit?"

"I have not found that to be wise."

The old man's expression was oddly sad. "Then, my friend, I fear the world has been cruel to you."

Another shrug. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." Nasir was not sure he liked where this conversation was going. He was uneasy with words such as these, in any language. He made his voice crisp, indifferent. "I have been charged with a task, to see you and yours to safety. I will do that, _inshallah_, or shame myself for my failure. If I am cautious, be glad of it."

"Indeed. But I wonder; if you will not unbar your gates, how do you know who is on the other side?" De Talmont tipped his head, his expression gentle but his eyes quietly insistent. "How can you know who to trust if you never learn who a man is?"

Nasir flicked his fingers in irritation, though his face remained still, his expression calm. He had been better schooled than to squabble like a jackal over scraps, even if de Talmont had not. "I can see who a man is. If I do not trust a hungry wolf to guard my flock, nor a frightened man to guard my back, is that not good sense?" And then, because he was tired and de Talmont was a fool and he could not help it, schooling or not, "And you are Jews in King Richard's England. Every man's hand _is_ against you."

De Talmont nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "Yours is not. You, and your friends in the forest."

"For myself, we are all _Ahl al-Kitab_ – People of the Book. As for my … friends … in the forest," and there was an odd intonation there, a hesitation that de Talmont was not quite sure he understood, "… they are their own masters. They do not think always as others do. They believe what their eyes see, and use their own minds."

A small laugh greeted that remark. "So, they are all scholars, then. To be able to entertain a thought without accepting it is the sign of an educated mind."

Aristotle again. Nasir found something deeply amusing in the image of Scarlet as a scholar. Personally he doubted that Scarlet had ever entertained a thought that he had not spoken aloud or acted upon; the man had very little restraint. All he said though, was, "I will go now, outside. I will not go far. If you have need, call."

"You may pray amongst us and give no offense," de Talmont told him. "As you say, we are all People of the Book."

"My thanks," Nasir said dryly. In fact, he preferred a little privacy for his prayers; a man's faith was between him and Allah the Merciful, after all. He saw no need to say so, though, rising to his feet and glancing at the smoky fire. "I am hungry, and stale bread and hard cheese will not suffice. I will find meat, if I can." He paused at the door, regarded his bow and decided against it. Anything he could not bring down with stealth and a dagger would be too much, in any case.

When he had gone, Sarah turned to her father in consternation. "Why do you provoke him?" she chided. "He has done us no wrong."

"A question or two honestly asked is not provocation, my dear." The old man leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, weary. "He resents my words because I ask him to consider himself, and I think because very few questions have been asked of him in a long time." His eyes opened, thoughtful, pensive. "I think too that he is a man who has at one time come very close to losing his path, and he is not sure even now that he has found his way back. I imagine," de Talmont said quietly, "that is a lonely place to be."

* * *

De Talmont, Nasir had decided, was a man who was overly fond of the sound of his own voice. Either that, or he was half in love with questions; he had, it seemed, a question for everything. Why do you do this, where did you learn that, why did you kill him, where is your trust? Nasir supposed that he could have given him a true answer for that last – in my sword arm and in Allah – but he did not think the man would have let that lie. What did de Talmont want him to say? That he'd learned half of what he knew in Masyaf following a madman, and found a good portion of it to be a lie? That it was ungodly hard to trust in the kindness of strangers when strangers had spent the best part of his life trying to kill him, and even harder when those who had been his Brothers might now want to kill him too? Perhaps in de Talmont's world, hostility and threat might be turned away with meekness and downcast eyes, but Nasir was as proud a son of the desert as had ever drawn breath, and he lowered his eyes for no man. His father had not named him Malik – Kingly One, by bearing and by blood – for nothing.

The woodland around the charcoal burner's hut was dripping with wet, typical of this fat green land even in summer. Nasir shuddered as an especially damp drop of water ran down the back of his neck, and scowled at the rain-flattened grass of the clearing he'd wandered into. He'd learned to track over the shifting sands and gritty stones of desert places, following the sign of swift-footed gazelle or jewel-bright lizards or the half-mad desert hare; in this land, he'd had to learn new tricks for reading the earth. Tracking small game in the rain was not one he'd yet mastered. He'd seen the marks of a passing hunter – spoor and fresh wolf tracks in a stretch of damp clay along a hedgerow – so there was prey here, but it was making itself scarce. In this land, even hares learned to go in out of the rain.

Hunkering down under a spreading tree, Nasir watched the rain fall into the steadily darkening gloom. Another good day's travel and they could make Lincoln; a day or two more and he would be back in Sherwood listening to Will taunt everyone within earshot and watching John try to keep the peace and wondering what madness Robin would lead them into next. No one would speak Greek, or Arabic, or anything remotely civilised, and no one would particularly care where he came from or ask him questions he did not want to answer. He could think of worse places to be.

Overhead, a pigeon roosting in the tree's lower branches ruffled its feathers and let out a low alarm. Nasir thought briefly of killing it for the pot – pigeon stew was as good as any – but then the alarm came again from off to his left, and he turned, pricking up his ears.

And then a child screamed.

* * *

In the hut, Sarah froze wide-eyed for a handful of heartbeats, and then bolted for the door. Her father was a step behind her, gasping already at the sudden exertion.

"Samuel! Samuel!"

Outside, the darkness and the trees hampered them, lashing wet branches into their path, making them stumble and falter. The scream came again, the sound of a child in terror, and Sarah felt an answering cry rising in her own throat. In a waver of moonlight she caught sight of Samuel, standing with his back against a dark tree … and she saw, too, the flash of eyes and teeth as the wolf that menaced him bore down.

* * *

The boy had wandered off as boys do, driven by boldness or boredom or nature's simple needs. Nasir saw that at once. He had no time to think on it though, for the wolf lunged even as he broke through the undergrowth. Nasir did not falter; he could not afford to. He lunged too.

* * *

Sarah opened her mouth to wail, and then gasped as a dark-clad figure sprang past her like a bolt from a crossbow, all coiled power and intensity suddenly released. Nasir hit the wolf running, knocking the beast from its charge and landing in a snarling tangled heap, all snapping teeth and studded leather and blunt, scrabbling claws. Samuel let out a high and piercing cry and flung himself away from the turmoil at his feet, into his father's arms.

Nasir fisted one hand in the thick ruff of the wolf's neck, fighting to keep the powerful jaws from closing on his exposed throat. His other hand sought one of his knives, without success; the beast's heavy body hindered him, stronger than it ought to be and pure vitality. Teeth caught in the leather of his jerkin, driving for the flesh beneath; he swore silently and kicked out, shoving the animal away. The wolf tumbled and wheeled, snapping furiously, and came back at his face.

The snarling of the wolf was the only sound. That was what Sarah would remember, later; the wolf snapping and slavering, and Nasir grimly silent. She would not remember picking up a fallen tree branch, nor would she remember rushing forward to strike at the wolf, howling herself like some wild pagan goddess of the hunt. She would recall only the sound of the animal's fury, and the silence of the man who held it at bay, and then the low grey streak of the wolf fleeing into the night.

Nasir was on his haunches, leaning forward with his head down. She couldn't see his face, but she could hear the low rumble of his voice steady in the dark. It sounded like prayer. She hesitated, hovered, touched his shoulder.

Nasir, who had in fact been swearing quite impressively and creatively in the language of his heart, glanced at her and heaved himself to his feet. "The boy?"

"He is unharmed," came de Talmont's reply. The man limped forward, Samuel clutched to his side. "I'm not sure you can say the same."

A quick roll of the shoulders and a grimace answered that. "It is nothing." His shoulder throbbed, and when he moved it a bright flare of pain sang down his arm. "It will heal."

"All the same, we should take a look. If there are wounds they will need cleaning, at least."

Nasir knew full well the dangers of infection; he'd seen men die from nothing much at all, once the poisons got in. He grunted his assent and strode past de Talmont without looking back.

His wounds for the most were shallow, but impressive; a jagged bite to the shoulder that would have been far worse if not for the leather he wore, and a row of score marks raking down his forearm. Bare to the waist, he suffered the attentions of de Talmont and his daughter, let them sluice the deepest of the punctures with wine (and was oddly grateful that they'd asked first; Will still could not understand the strictures against alcohol in Nasir's faith, proffering wine or mead once or twice a week and disgusted when his offer was refused), even accepted a cup of willow-bark tea.

"For the pain," Sarah told him. Nasir said nothing. He knew perfectly well what willow-bark was for – Marion was in the habit of forcing it on anyone who so much as squinted – and in any case, the pain was not so bad. He'd known worse. He watched her sort through her small collection of medicinals – comfrey, sage, yarrow, a handful of others, and begin mixing them to a paste.

Samuel approached, all big eyes and pale, drawn cheeks. "I'm sorry for going off like that. I'm sorry I caused trouble."

Probably his father had told him to apologise. Nasir saw no reason to worry the lad further. "No trouble. There was a wolf, now it's gone."

"It bit you."

"It did."

Samuel was silent a moment, considering that. He tilted his head to one side. "Does it hurt?"

"Not so much."

Another pause while the boy thought that through. Then; "Nasir? What does _ib_ … _ibn-sharmuta_ mean?"

That made Nasir blink, then laugh in spite of himself. So, the boy had heard him cursing at the wolf, had he? _Ya Allah_, how did he get out of this?

De Talmont did not precisely come to his rescue. "Leave Nasir be, Samuel. He can't be up all night answering your questions."

"Yes, father." The boy sounded disappointed, but he crossed the room to where his sister Esther already huddled in her blankets, ready for sleep.

"I knew that he had an ear for languages," de Talmont said, watching the lad go. He glanced at Nasir, eyes twinkling in mild good humour. "But I could have hoped that his first Arabic would not be quite so … colourful."

"My apologies then, for my rough tongue." Nasir did not sound as if he meant it. De Talmont smiled.

"You had cause. And in any case, how should I call you to account for a profanity or two when you have just saved my son's life?" The old man lowered himself to sit next to Nasir on the beaten earth floor. "It seems you are making quite a habit of saving us from wolves … both those that go on four legs and those that go on two."

Another laugh, though softer this time. De Talmont wondered at that. The man could show little or no emotion for days in pleasant company, but give him an enemy to fight and a nasty bite wound and he suddenly developed a sense of humour.

"By two-legged wolves, you mean Gisburne?" Nasir nodded his approval of that; Gisburne, with his cool blue eyes and his arrogant, predatory ways, was like a wolf, when he thought about it. "I think I would rather fight Gisburne than his four-legged kin. He fights fair, at least."

"He does?" De Talmont's eyes narrowed in surprise. "I had not thought …"

"Fair is the wrong word, perhaps." Nasir made a graceful gesture with his good hand, negating what he'd just said. "Perhaps 'predictable' is better. Gisburne does what he does – he shouts, he postures, he waves his sword. He thinks no more than he has to." The dark man gave a sudden grin. It made him look like a boy. "He would make a good crusader, I think. A good horseman, a good fighter, but so little imagination."

"Is he dangerous, truly?" De Talmont had not asked this before. He had been avoiding thinking of it, in fact. "Do you think he will come after us, even in Lincoln?"

Nasir considered that for a moment, then made that graceful negating gesture again. "I think not. He can be persistent, but Lincoln is far and there is easier prey nearer to hand. Even so, we will not tarry, or take risks." Dark eyes hardened then, and met de Talmont's very directly. "Understand me, now: the road belongs to no man. You will not be safe until you are within Lincoln's walls."

_And you, my friend? When will you be safe?_ De Talmont did not say that aloud, though. He did not think it would be well received. In any case, he was coming to suspect that safety was not a consideration in Nasir's world: danger clearly brought out the best in him.

Sarah had finished with her herbs. Nasir sat quietly while she applied the tincture and dressed his wounds, though he could have done it just as easily himself. The girl wanted to help, to be useful. He saw no reason to deny her that much. When she had done, he thanked her quietly and reached for his shirt and scarred jerkin. Sarah eyed him anxiously, taking in the glare of the white dressings against his olive skin, the handful of scars he carried. One of those scars, a deep furrow a little above his right hip, caught in the light of the feeble fire, old and pale where once it would have been livid. Nasir noticed her staring.

"An old wound. Hunting." As it happened, that was true – he had been hunting in the shale hills above Aleppo, and he had been careless and failed to see the ambush that waited for him. The spear thrust might have killed him, had his father's personal physician not been Cordoba-trained. She did not need to know that, though. She looked frightened enough already. He shrugged into his shirt, left the leather jerkin for later, and tipped his head towards the paniers piled in the corner. "There is still food?"

Food. Sarah started, giving herself a brisk shake. Of course. He had said before that he was hungry, and the wolf had interrupted his hunt. She nodded.

"Yes, a little. Some bread still, and half a dozen green apples, and cheese." She gathered them as she spoke, bringing him what they had carefully stored in a rough bound sack. Nasir sighed inwardly and thought briefly of the pigeon he hadn't killed. The bread was days old, tough and dry. He thanked her, and ate it anyway.

* * *

Lincoln was no better than Nasir had expected, if not precisely any worse. The streets were narrow and cramped, the houses and stores seeming to lean in overhead, reducing the sky to a tapering line of grey. It had been raining on and off all day.

The guards on the town gates – slovenly uninterested men who reeked of ale and old sweat – had eyed the small party dubiously as they entered, but done little else. Perhaps de Talmont's claim to be a merchant visiting for the wool market, accompanied by his family and their armed servant for the road, had convinced them. In any case, the guards had not impeded their passing, nor asked Nasir to surrender his weapons while inside the city walls. That, Nasir considered, was either dreadfully careless or very wise.

Inside the city, de Talmont led the way, coming after several twists and turns – and was it Nasir's imagination, or were there whores on every street? – to the Jewry's gates. Like a town within a town, Lincoln's Jewish quarter was walled off; kept apart from the world without. The main gates were closed, with only a small portal left open for the comings and goings of the citizens of this place. Pausing, de Talmont glanced at Nasir.

"You need not accompany us further, if you'd prefer not to. My brother's house is close now, and we will be safe beyond this gate."

Nasir shook his head. "I was charged to see you to safety. Safety is not an old man and children wandering in the street." Beneath his jerkin, his torn shoulder throbbed and burned. "Go ahead."

For a moment de Talmont only looked at him with that odd, quiet smile, and Nasir braced himself for another flurry of questions and well meaning admonishments. But then the old man dipped his head and took the donkey's halter, clicking his tongue to urge it forward as they passed through the gate.

The streets inside the Jewry were much as the streets outside, if a little cleaner and less crowded, and not so seething with whores. Children played in a cluster in the mouth of an alleyway, chasing a spinning top with rope whips. A pair of women hurried past, loaded with burdens from the market – a jar of oil, a lamb leg swathed in sacking. A man in fine if understated robes moved by, accompanied by two fellows with stout sticks. There were eyes everywhere, watching suspiciously, wary of strangers in this place where strangers could so often mean trouble, but suspicion turned easily enough into smiles when they recognised their own.

De Talmont's brother's house was large, standing in a good street close by the synagogue, with a solid door and a slate tile roof. A porter opened at de Talmont's knocking, a heavy man with a hard face. But he smiled at the old man and his gathered children, and pushed the door wide.

"Master Joshua! It's a right glad sight to see you! We heard about that nastiness down there in Nottingham, and Master Isaac's been all a-fret over whether you got caught up in it. But here you are, safe and sound. I'll send Daniel to tell the master you're here, and to fetch a lad to take your donkey around the back. Come inside, come inside."

The children, wide-eyed and weary, let themselves be ushered into the house. De Talmont and Sarah hesitated on the threshold. Exchanging glances, the two of them turned to Nasir, both beginning to speak at once.

"You're welcome to …"

"Thank you so much for …"

Nasir silenced them both with a small gesture and a courtly bow. "No thanks are needed. I was given a duty; I have discharged it. It was my honour to do so."

"You should stay," Sarah said quickly, as if worried someone would stop her. "At least until morning. Your arm …"

"… is of no concern. Your hospitality is appreciated, but I will not stay." Nasir handed off the donkey's halter rope to the lurking servant boy who had slunk out from the shadows of the narrow alley that ran beside the house and was staring at him as if he were some black _ifrit_ from a storyteller's tale. "It is best I return to the forest. I am … too easily noticed, here."

De Talmont nodded. "Aristotle says that it is misfortune that shows a man his friends from his enemies. You have been a friend to my family. We will not forget."

"Aristotle was fond of words, I think." Nasir smiled. It had been good to talk with someone who even knew who Aristotle was, he supposed. He had not realised how much he had missed those things. The closest Will would come to discussing the philosophy of the old Greeks was debating whether a man would rather lose his left ear or his right. To de Talmont and his daughter, he bowed again. "_Ma'a salama_."

"And peace go with you too, my friend."

Leaving Lincoln was even easier than getting in. The men on the gates watched only who entered. They didn't give a fig who went the other way. Nasir thought it likely that they had not seen him at all.

Dusk was drawing down, casting the already grey evening into deeper tones of blue and shadow. Nasir did not go far. His shoulder was aching in a way he didn't like, though it was too dark to see if the wound had discoloured, and he was tired and worn. It was not difficult for one man alone to find a place to sleep, especially if he did not much care for comfort beyond being warm and out of the rain. A haystack drying in an open field was a welcome shelter. It was scratchy, and chaff worked into Nasir's clothes and made him itch and sneeze, but it was comfortable enough.

He pushed on early the next morning, after shaking the hay out of his shirt and the dust out of his hair. The state of his shoulder in the morning light caused some concern; the wounds seemed angry, deep purple bruises shot through with dark red lines, and hot to the touch. The day was as grey and fitful as the one before; the rain seemed to chill him to the bone.

By mid-morning, Nasir knew he was in trouble. His mouth was as dry as if he'd run three miles in the desert sun instead of trudging in the English rain, and he felt flushed and weary in spite of the cool damp of the day and the easy pace of his travel. Bite wounds, he knew, were prone to turning bad, poisons seeping in regardless of the wine wash and herbal tinctures. He cursed inwardly. A wound fever now was the last thing he needed.

It did not take much thought. There were not, after all, many options to consider. He could hole up out here like an animal in its den and wait for things to take their course; he could push on to Sherwood and hope that he didn't half kill himself in the process; or he could go back to Lincoln and trust that de Talmont would be as good as his word. Sherwood was days away, he had no intention of shivering like an animal in ditch, and Lincoln was but a handful of hours back the way he had come. It was, really, no decision at all.

* * *

There had been many times in his life that Nasir had been thankful for his training. Making his way through Lincoln to de Talmont's brother's house was one of those times; had he not been taught so painstakingly to observe, to see, to understand his surroundings, he would never have found his way back. He did his best, too, to remain unnoticed, unobtrusive. He was not sure how far he succeeded, but no one challenged him. Nasir was rather glad of that. He did not feel up to a skirmish right now. His head was increasingly light, and he wanted to sleep for a week.

Nasir's unchallenged progress through Lincoln ended rather abrubtly at de Talmont's door. In answer to his knocking, the same porter who had answered yesterday slid open the small trap window. The man was not smiling now: he looked harsh and disapproving. He peered at Nasir unhappily.

"You. Go away. We don't want your sort here."

"Your pardon," Nasir said, striving for patience. His tongue didn't want to remember Hebrew at the moment: he stumbled over his words. "A word with your master, if you please?"

"Master don't be speaking to the likes of you. Get away off now, before I call the guard on you."

"I was here yesterday." Nasir briefly considered the merits of driving a dagger through the belligerent porter's eye. He decided against it. It would not get the door open any faster. "With de Talmont … Joshua …"

"I know that," the porter interrupted. "Told us all about you, he did. Outlaw, you are. Outlaw and heathen. Don't want your type around here, causing trouble for honest folk. Clear off!"

Nasir was unsure what was more irritating: the sheer ingratitude of the man, or being called a heathen by an uneducated lout who opened doors for his keep. In perfectly modulated court Arabic, he announced, "The word you want is 'paynim', you moon-faced idiot son of a poxed camel. May your women cool at your touch and your skullcaps be made from the scrotum of a diseased goat." And then, far more coarse but very satisfying, "Fuck you."

Behind the door, the porter yapped something about spells and witchery, but Nasir payed that no mind. Instead, he stalked off down the narrow alley where the boy yesterday had taken the donkey. Perhaps he would have better luck there.

As it happened, he was right. At the end of the alley was a fenced yard with a modest stable, a kitchen garden thick with herbs, and a small battalion of chickens. The serving boy to whom Nasir had given the donkey was there, pushing muck around in a desultory fashion and whistling something untuneful. Nasir opened the gate and pointed to the boy.

"You. Fetch Joshua de Talmont. Go."

For a moment the boy only stared, and Nasir wondered if he'd spoken in Arabic again without noticing, but then the lad took to his heels, racing for the house. Scowling after him, Nasir shrugged and made himself comfortable on a bench near the herb garden. His shoulder ached, his head throbbed, and he was horribly thirsty. Someone would come. And if not, he would go looking.

Someone, as it turned out, was the porter. The boy was not with him. The porter was accompanied by a heavy stick instead, and wore a determined expression. Ill and insulted and thoroughly fed up, Nasir greeted the man with one of his daggers, flung with alarming precision to bite, quivering, into the porter's staff. The porter paled, stopped. Nasir said, very clearly, "Fetch your master. Fetch Joshua de Talmont. Go now."

"What's all the fuss about?" A familiar voice came from the doorway. "Meron, why are you pounding about with that cudgel?"

"It's the Saracen, Master Joshua. Him what's a killer an' such! I've told him to leave but …"

"You'll tell him no such thing!" De Talmont strode into the yard, giving the porter a withering glare. "This man is a friend who came to our aid when no others would. Are your manners so poor as that?"

"His manners are appalling," Nasir said bluntly, then sighed. "As are mine, right now. I must impose, I fear."

De Talmont looked at him closely. "You are not well, my friend."

"Wound fever. It will pass. But …"

"You need a place to rest. Of course, of course." De Talmont nodded, spreading his hands in welcome. "You must stay here. Come, please. Come inside." And then, to the porter, "Meron, give him his knife back."

"But he …"

"I'm sure he did. And I'm sure you provoked him. So that balances the ledger, does it not?"

Frowning, the porter twisted the little dagger out of his cudgel and tossed it clumsily to Nasir, who caught it neat-handed and made it disappear. Even feeling like a wrung out rag, he could handle a weapon smoothly.

Following de Talmont inside, Nasir found himself in a warm, homely kitchen alive with good smells. A calico cat lazed near the door, and a woman with flour on her cheeks stared as they passed, but de Talmont paid her no mind, leading Nasir through a door and into a comfortable room with low couches and a chess game set up on a table. Nasir paused by the board, regarding the pieces with an odd intensity. De Talmont raised his brows, surprised.

"You play?"

"A little. Not well." Nasir, who had actually been contemplating the strange way the squares of the chessboard seemed to shift and blur at the edges, closed his eyes briefly and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. Even to his own touch, his skin burned.

There was a sound at the door; the boy from the yard came in, gasping for breath.

"Master Joshua, there's … oh. You found him."

"Yes, Daniel. Thank you. Go tell Leah to make a room ready for our guest, please."

The boy disappeared. Nasir looked after him, unimpressed. Weariness loosened his tongue.

"Your brother's servants are ill-disciplined."

"Yes," de Talmont said cheerfully. "He really should beat them more." He smiled, so Nasir could tell he was joking. "They lack decorum, but they're loyal. You will be safe here. I can promise you that."

"It is not my safety which concerns me." Nasir slumped onto the nearest couch without waiting to be asked. His bones were starting to ache. "It's yours, and your family's; I put you in danger by being here."

"I know." De Talmont smiled again, a little. "Yet I think we will survive." He surveyed the man before him, taking in the faint tremor of his hands and the glimmer of sweat on his dusky skin. "How bad is it? Do you need a doctor?"

That made Nasir laugh under his breath. "A doctor? Is there one in this … place," – and there was a world of scorn in that simple word – "… who doesn't kill people?"

"A physician who doesn't kill his patients? Does such a wonder exist in all England?" De Talmont laughed too, and there was an undertone of bitterness in the sound that Nasir thought he understood: no doctor could help de Talmont either, in this land or in any other. Not with his infirmity. That could incline any man towards resentment.

Aloud, Nasir said, "No, no doctor. Only rest and warmth."

The servant boy came back, bearing a pitcher and a cup on a tray. "Leah says the room's ready, Master. The one at back, over the kitchen. She told me to bring water."

"Very good, Daniel. Leave the water here, I'll bring it up."

The boy cast a wary eye over Nasir as he lowered the tray to the table. It put Nasir in mind of the way a lap cat might watch a strange dog that had wandered into its yard: carefully, and with equal measures of fascination and fear. Or, his memory murmured, suspicion and survival. For some reason, Nasir found that almost amusing.

De Talmont caught the glimmer of that in his eyes, and quirked his lips in understanding. He waited until the boy left, then said, "You are something of a legend to him, I think. He has not met a man of your people before. And it helps that Samuel has been bragging of your exploits. Last I heard, you single-handedly fought off a whole army of brigands and defeated a pack of wolves, and that after setting the Sheriff of Nottingham on his ear."

Nasir snorted. "I killed one man because it was needful and was chewed on by a wild dog; hardly exploits. As for the Sheriff, the praise for that does not belong to me."

"Indeed." De Talmont looked pensive for a moment, recalling the Sheriff's hands defiling the sacred book and the price the man had paid for his arrogance, but then he smiled. "Still, young boys need their heroes. And speaking of boys, here is Samuel now. Samuel, will you bring the water to Nasir's room?"

"Yes father." The boy darted forward, taking up the pitcher two handed with an enthusiasm that made the water slosh against the rim. "_Salaam_, Nasir."

"_Wa alaykum as-salaam_, Samuel." Nasir forced himself to his feet, hating the unsteady way he felt and the swimming in his head. Samuel looked up at him, bright-eyed.

"Nasir?'

A lifted eyebrow answered that. "Hmm?"

"I'm glad you came back."

"Hmm."

"Nasir?"

_Ya Allah_, the boy was as bad as his father with all his questions. Nasir made himself patient, though his vision was starting to pulse now in time with his heartbeat. "Yes?"

"What does _eye_ … _ayr_ … _arye fique_ mean?" And then, when Nasir only stared, "I heard you say it to Meron." The boy frowned, then whispered conspiratorially. "He thinks you put a curse on him."

Merciful Allah, did the boy listen at every door? Nasir shook his head in despair as de Talmont shooed his son away.

Later, upstairs in the tidy, well-aired room Nasir had been given, the sound of Joshua de Talmont's quiet laughter followed him into sleep.

* * *

For the first time in years, Nasir slept in a bed with clean, herb-scented covers and goose-down pillows, under a roof that did not leak or drip, in a room that caught the day's light and warmth. During the day, he listened to the sound of children playing in the house below, and out in the yard, chasing each other through the herb gardens and scattering the chickens. Some mornings, he lingered in the garden himself, sprawling on the bench in the sun surrounded by the smell of sage and thyme and the drone of bees, though for the most he kept to his room. Joshua de Talmont brought him a great treasure of his house: three books purchased at great cost from a travelling merchant. One, Nasir saw without surprise, was Aristotle's _Ta Ethika_, in the original Greek. The others were poetry, in Greek, Hebrew, and even, Allah be praised, in Arabic with its beautiful flowing script. He devoured them all.

His Hebrew, learned so long ago, grew less laboured, more natural on his tongue. He learned the names of the people of this house; Isaac, de Talmont's younger brother, his wife Ruth, and Ruth's dead sister's son Aaron, who was Sarah de Talmont's betrothed. Sarah came to bring him herbal infusions of willow bark and cinquefoil, which he drank without complaint in spite of the sharp and lingering taste, and he let her clean his wounds and dress them daily until good healing flesh began to show. Mostly he rested, and let his body mend itself.

He slept a lot, but he dreamed surprisingly little. Fevers, Nasir had learned in the past, could do odd things to a man's head. This time, though, he did not dream of enemies and ambushes and being hunted through the dark. It took him a day or two to understand why: it had been some time since he had felt so much at peace.

"Ah," de Talmont said one night, when Nasir admitted that to him over a game of backgammon. The man had taken to bringing the board up to Nasir's room at night, after supper, to talk about the day. It was, Nasir supposed, very nearly civilised. "But that is what family does for a man – gives him a place to belong. There is no greater peace than that."

"This is not my family," Nasir demurred. "And not my place."

"And yet you are welcome in it." The old man smiled, shifting a pair of black pieces in a very clever block. "Does that not make it yours, at least a little?"

"Perhaps." Nasir studied the board, flicked the dice, and shuffled a red stone five points to counter. "A little. If it will have me."

"Of course, you'll have to stop teaching my son to swear like a caravanserai merchant's guard." And then, in the same tone of voice, as if it were nothing much, "I'm dying, you know."

_Inna'lillahi wa inna'ilayhi rajiun._Nasir recited the short prayer silently – From Allah we come and to Allah we return – then looked up. "I know."

"They tell me …" A spate of coughing interrupted him; Nasir waited until he was done. "They tell me it's my heart. Dropsy."

"Yes." Nasir was not surprised by that. He had not precisely studied medicine at the feet of the masters, but he had paid attention to what lessons he'd had, and the signs of a failing heart were clear enough. He thought that de Talmont might live out the year, if he was lucky and kept away from the hedge doctors that passed as physicians in this part of the world, whose single best cure for any ill was blood loss and outrage of the flesh. Better than that, though, Nasir could not say.

"Your fever has lifted." The dice rattled in their cup, clattered on the board. Stones shifted from point to point. "You will be leaving us soon, I expect?"

"It would be best."

"Safest. You attract notice here." A smile, to show that the words were well meant. "And your friends in the forest will be expecting you."

Nasir nodded, took a breath. The old man had offered him something, just now: a truth, and one that went to the core of him. It was only right to return that in kind. He braced himself, made his offering. "I don't want to go."

"I know."

"It has been long since I have had a home, long since I have known where my home even is." And that was as brutal a truth as he carried; a truth he had been hiding from for longer than he could know. When was it that he had begun to doubt his place in the world? In Acre, when Sarak had left? Or before then, in Masyaf, listening to ad-Din Sinan lie and lie and call it faith? "This is not my home. But I think … if I stayed here, I think it could become so."

"God forbid," de Talmont murmured wryly. "Of course, you must leave at once."

"_Allahu akbar_, a Jew with a sense of humour. Is that a sign of the End Times?"

For a brief moment, they laughed quietly together, recognising at the same time the thing that had grown between them. Friendship was odd like that; it took root in the most unlikely of places. Then de Talmont leant forward and, very lightly, touched his fingertips to the place over Nasir's heart.

"Your home," he said, "is here. In your heart, in who you are. Carry it with you, my friend. The world is a wide place."

"Hearts fail."

"They do." The old man smiled, kind and sure. "They do. But souls do not."

No, Nasir supposed. Souls did not.

He left Lincoln and the de Talmonts two days later. He might have gone sooner, but Sarah had eyed him sternly, folded her arms across her chest in that way that was common to women the world over, and threatened to burn his boots if he even looked like leaving before she said he was ready. His wounds were healing well and his fever was long passed when she relented and he won his way to the door.

Samuel had insisted on walking with Nasir as far as the Jewry gates. Meron had shadowed them, in part to keep an eye on the Saracen ("Not to be trusted, that sort, not at all!") and in part to escort Samuel safely home. The boy returned with a message for his father. He delivered it with fierce, careful concentration, his head high.

"_Jazakallahu khairan_," he said. "It means, 'May Allah reward you with good'. Nasir said to say … he said to say …" Samuel's brow furrowed in concentration, then lightened as he remembered. "He said to say that only the best sort of caravanserai guardsmen speak like that." The boy frowned, a little puzzled. "I'm not sure what he means by that. Do you know, Father?"

"Yes, Samuel," de Talmont smiled. "Yes, I do."

"Oh. Good." Samuel was silent a moment, wriggling his toes in his sandals. "Will we see him again, Father?"

"I don't think so, Samuel."

"But …" The boy looked disappointed. "But why?"

"Because he is on a journey," de Talmont said, looking down the quiet street in the direction Nasir had gone. The sky was clear and warm overhead. "And he has some way to go."

_Epilogue_

_Joshua de Talmont exceeded Nasir's expectation and lived out the year and more, holding off his failing health for long enough to see his oldest daughter wed to her betrothed, Aaron ben Aaron. He died in the autumn of the following year, and was laid to rest in the cemetery near Lincoln's synagogue. Sarah was delivered of a healthy son, four months after her father's death. He was named Joshua._

_In 1255, the body of a Christian boy named Hugh was found floating in a water cistern near the Jewish quarter. The Jews of Lincoln were blamed for his death, for it was widely put about that it was Jewish custom to murder a Christian child as part of a holy rite. Ninety-one Lincoln Jews were seized and taken to the Tower of London, and eighteen of those imprisoned were later hanged without trial._

_Samuel de Talmont, an elder of Lincoln, was one of them._

_For stories do not keep us safe, and sometimes faith must be tested._


End file.
